Descriptions
by SocialMoth
Summary: In which anonymous narrators describe Baker Street's resident consulting detective.  Purely to stretch out my writing muscles; nothing serious. Caution: Developed in a hard-drive that also processes plotlines.
1. Violet

**April 2011**

**Well, I have this glorious new fandom, and I wanted to prove that I'm still alive, so...**

**I have been _incredibly_ busy these past several months, _not_ able to creatively write _at all_. I was dying to stretch out my descriptive muscles, so I decided to take a break from finishing up assignments and studying for finals to scratch this out.  
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**And so I give you this writing/description exercise and not really a fanfiction at all... Really, it's pretty stream-of-consciousness. I mostly wanted to get out some of my descriptions of Mr. Cumberbatch's Sherlock before I drove myself crazy making them up and having nowhere to put them. XD  
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**It's from the point of view of whoever you want it to be. I imagine it's some shop girl somewhere...**

**Disclaimer: Oh, if only I owned "Sherlock"... The show would be not nearly so brilliant. Hallelujah! X)**

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><p>You can't help but watch him walk down the street. Really. I mean, I can't. If I'm on the sidewalk and he's coming my way, I shift to the side and covertly turn my gaze to follow his path, to follow the subtle flutter of his messy, black curls. If I catch sight of him from across the street, then I slow my pace to observe the clean lines of his long, black coat.<p>

I can't help it.

He stands out. If it's not for his height that anybody notices him, his face towering a foot above anyone else in the crowd, then it is that very face itself. I have never seen any other face like it. The mountain-white skin so shocking against his dark hair is only part of it. If I had been shown a picture of just that face, I would have seen something alien.

I wonder sometimes if he is an alien.

No human could possibly have cheekbones that catch the light like that. No one could have eyes so icy cold and yet so breathtaking to see. His limbs are impossibly long, and he is impossibly thin.

And when that light catches not just his cheekbones, but his entire visage, in just the right way, he is impossibly handsome.

Today, just like any other day, I stopped what I was doing and carefully kept my eye on the bend of his arms, his hands mounted securely in the pockets of that fine black coat. The ebb and flow of his legs, the length of them just barely perceptible in the folds of fabric that protected him from the sharp winter air.

Every time I see him walk, he has a purpose. This man never goes anywhere without a reason, and it is always at the same brisk pace that he moves anywhere.

In the past, I would see him walking alone.

Recently, his gait has been a little slower; recently, a smaller, kind-faced man who has aged too much for his years has walked with him, or been barely able to keep up with him. I don't know who this man is or where or when he showed up in the other's life, but having him there... is not so bad.

After realizing this, I wonder for a moment why. After all, this new man's companionship should ruin the isolated show of the lone wolf on the prowl. Maybe I should feel jealous that he should come to know the black-coated man on a personal level while I am left to watch from afar, never having the reason or the bravery to ask his name.

And I realize that no one knows this man on a personal level. I have never known him to show any indication of having any personal relationships with other people. I have certainly seen him talking with others, on the street or by doorways, but never the same person twice. Somehow, this man had no companions.

And now he does, at the expense of my private show.

And I decide that that's okay.

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><p><strong>Yep. This wasn't anything serious, so please don't feel like you have to gather anything profound from it. X) This was purely for fun.<strong>

**Thanks for stopping by. :)**


	2. Ice

**May 2011**

**|D Yeeeah, I'm adding to it... Consider this a collection of superdrabbles, then.  
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**Thought I'd try writing a perspective from the other side of the coin, which made this interesting to write because I almost _never_ describe the canon's hero (or whatever Sherlock would consider himself) negatively for more than a line or two of _dialogue_. This is a whole narrative attack on Mr. Holmes, from the perspective of some disgruntled officer at Scotland Yard.**

**I know maybe this sounds like Donavan, but I promise I had no particular character in mind when writing this. I just tried to cram in everything negative that I could about Sherlock. XD**

**Still don't own "Sherlock." Oh, but do I ever wish I were several years older and living in the UK...**

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><p>He freaks me out. Seriously. Just look at him.<p>

Standing there, haunting the doorway like that, waiting for... God knows what.

You turn around from running the copier and he's there, paler than a ghost, about as see-through, he's so bleeding skinny; you jump three feet and he doesn't react.

I think it's his eyes. There's something way creepy about his eyes. They're too pale. They look a bit small for his face, but I know that can't be it, because it's not so much that his eyes are small as that he just squints a lot. It bothers me. Like why doesn't he get glasses if he's near-sighted or photophobic or something? I don't like minding my own business and then suddenly feeling like he's trying to read my mind because he has to narrow his eyes like that when he watches a person.

That he can't even be discreet about it irks me the most. No, he has to have that little insolent glare like he's judging you. Trying to figure out why you're not a freak like he is, maybe.

Oh God, don't get me started on when he actually _speaks_. If it's not him telling you exactly why you're stupider than him, it's him spewing out nonsense about codes being written on melon seeds or stuff like that. And people _listen_.

I mean, it looks like they're listening. But they certainly can't understand him any better than I can most of the time. Bloody motormouth just likes to hear himself talk, I bet.

That was fine before, because we learned not to encourage him. Just get the final "deduction" out of him, and get him the hell out of there.

Then that other one started following him around, and it just never ends anymore. I take a break for a fag when I see them walking into the office now, because I know it'll be just as long of the one showing off how clever he is and the other soaking it all up and begging for more like some – hell, I don't know what to call it. They certainly aren't _friends_. The freak doesn't _have_ friends: he has people who follow him around until they realize how messed up the guy is and then save themselves while they can.

A mini-psychopath, in-training, maybe.

Heh.

I don't bother with them if I can avoid it. The DI might be impressed, but I tend to believe that the freak's only going to be a whole lotta no good one of these days. What he does, it's not extraordinary; it's goddamn _scary._ No human being should be able to tell you everything you've done the past week right after walking in the room, but it's what he does, and no one sees a problem with it here because it's _useful_.

But one of these days... Hmph. Them again. Time for another smoke.

And one of these days, that weird-ass "gift" of his, it's going to get him shot.

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><p><strong>(BTW: If you're not familiar with Britishisms beyond the Harry Potter level, "fag" is slang for a cigarette.)<strong>

**Obviously, this individual doesn't get many chances to complain about something he/she won't bother trying to understand (not necessarily _like_, but _understand_...).**

**I find it interesting that last chapter's purple prose was all about how fit Sherlock is, and this chapter's narrator boils the language to bare bones about how deplorable Sherlock's disposition seems. (This also demonstrates the extremes of my writing capabilities! Yay!)**

**Once again, nothing serious here. But thank you for reading this far. :)**

**Have a good one!**


	3. Onyx

**June 2011**

**Been a wee bit. Not that anyone stalks my profile on here, but I did somewhat recently acquire a _thought _of where I might take this if I decide to give it an actual plot (not my original intention for this, but like many things, my mind tends to operate in a state of flux). So now we've got this.**

**Still don't own "Sherlock." Drat. But, I'd settle for Benedict as himself if he agreed to continue dyeing his hair...**

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><p>Doing what I do, I'm s'posed to be pretty impartial about my passengers, I guess. No one ever officially made a point that I can't judge the people I pick up, but I imagine it's like any customer service job. You don't know their story, you don't know why they're there, but there they are and they have money, and you shouldn't complain.<p>

Most of 'em, I don't remember later. Like I told ya, whoever's gonna pay the fare. Get dozens a day. The back of my head isn't any more significant to them than their reflection in the rear-view mirror is to me.

Some of them I do remember, though. Frequent riders, that sort of thing. There's a bloke I often get, who lives on Baker Street now. You'd remember him even if he didn't frequent your cab. Looks kinda funny. I don't mean funny, 'haha,' he's not the kind I would dare laugh around if he weren't laughing, too. I mean he looks different. You get all sorts working a cab, so maybe my view of different needs a bit of tweaking to match yours, but I suppose that means he really does look an odd one compared to what I see day to day.

Oh, well, he's paler than most Londoners, but he's local enough. I can't place where he might have got eyes like that, though. Looks like he only eats about three times a month, although if that fine coat he always wears is anything to go by, he's rich enough to eat ten times a day if he wants. And he pays a good fare, at that. I say he must have money to burn; oftentimes he doesn't stick around to get the change.

All the other cabbies love him for that, if nothing else. The man mostly keeps to himself, or else he quickly loses interest if any one of us tries to make chitchat during a long one. Tends to be a bit rude. But at least he's never drunk.

Sometimes, though, someone'll be with him. Usually a one-time thing for a person, and I know they're never on dates cos he'll talk about a murder or a disappeared person or somesuch. Shocked me at first, but I learned to tune it out. I'm not s'posed to judge my passengers.

A lot of the time, though, recently, it's been the same other person. Not sure what his story is, but I don't think I'd look twice at him in a crowd. Seems like a nice enough chap – don't know what he does hanging around the other one. They seem to get along, though. I can't help thinking that's a great thing for him.

Dropped them both off at an apartment complex this afternoon, in fact. One of 'em walked into the building; the other looked around and then went off in another direction. They do that a lot, too. I've learned with these two to wait around a moment, see if I'll be needed again shortly. Once they were both out of sight I just pulled back into the street. Lunch hour, you know.

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><p><strong>Sometimes super-short can be a good thing, yes? Like, for instance, a dental appointment.<strong>

**Yes, I had the voice of the cabbie (what's his name, Jeff? I don't remember) in my head when I was writing this. As I'm sure I've mentioned elsewhere on this, I don't get to play with "voices" a lot, and, well, I learn a lot about writing by trying to emulate things I've heard and read.  
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**Writing an informal voice is _nice_ after months of being so stiff over formal college papers...**

**Cheers. :)**


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